Chapter 169: Four Out of Ten

NORA’S POV

My eyes opened at seven o’clock to the soft glow of morning sunlight spilling across the snow on the balcony.

Beside me, Mom was already awake, sitting up in bed with a peaceful smile on her face. Across the living room, Priya was at the counter in her silk pajamas, applying eye patches.

Three firm knocks sounded against the suite door.

I slipped out of bed, padded across the warm carpet, and opened the door.

Knox stood in the hallway wearing a clean Briar Hockey long-sleeve tee, dark joggers, and a baseball cap pulled backward. In his hands, he carried a cardboard tray with four large coffee cups and a bag of warm breakfast bagels from the lodge bakery.

"Morning, Bennett," Knox said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Morning, Sheridan," I smiled, stepping aside to let him in.

He set the tray on the kitchen counter, turned around, and pulled me into his arms. He gave me a firm, grounding hug, his chin resting against the top of my curls. ℯ

"Sleep good?" he asked against my ear.

"Like a rock," I replied, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. "My feet don’t even hurt anymore."

"Told you my hands work miracles," Knox smirked.

Mom walked out of the bedroom, dressed in her comfortable black baking trousers and a fresh white chef shirt. "Good morning, Knox. You’re an angel with that coffee."

"Anything for the head baker, Mrs. Bennett," Knox said with an easy grin, handing her a steaming cup.

By eight-fifteen, the three of us took the elevator down to the ground floor and walked into the Grand Alpine Exhibition Hall.

The energy in the room was entirely different from yesterday. The spectator gallery was packed to capacity with resort guests, Boston food critics, and corporate donors. Multiple television cameras with bright spotlights hovered on cranes above the four cooking islands.

In the front row of the gallery, Bear leaned over the brass railing wearing his oversized Briar varsity jersey. Priya sat right beside him in a sharp cream blazer, holding her phone ready to record.

Bear waved a massive piece of white cardboard in the air with bold black letters: SUGAR & SPICE WORLD CHAMPIONS. EAT DUST, BOSTON.

Mom let out a soft gasp of laughter, pressing a hand to her mouth. "Good heavens, look at Bear."

"He’s subtle like a freight train," Knox chuckled, giving Bear a quick chin nod from across the floor.

At Station Six, our commercial dual-chamber stone-deck hearth oven was already humming, radiating a solid four hundred and eighty degrees of dry, volcanic heat.

Across the center aisle at Station One, Chef Marcel Moreau stood with his two assistants. He wore a crisp, starched white jacket with a towering white toque on his head. When he noticed us walking in, his eyes narrowed, his chin tilting up in open condescension.

"Ignore him," Knox murmured, tying a canvas apron around his waist. "He’s rattled."

"I’m not worried about Moreau," I said, tying my own apron strings tight. "Let’s give them something they can’t forget."

At eight-fifty-five, head judge Chef Evelyn stepped up to the center stage with her microphone. The crowd hushed.

"Welcome to the Grand Finale of the Tri-County Artisan Baking Showcase," Chef Evelyn announced. "Four teams remain. Your challenge: the Grand Finale Harvest Showpiece. You have four hours to construct an architectural centerpiece of artisan bread, accompanied by twelve signature harvest pastries. Ovens on in five... four... three... two..."

The loud blast of an air horn echoed through the arena.

The four-hour clock on the massive digital scoreboard started ticking down from 4:00:00.

"Here we go," Mom said, her eyes alight with sharp focus. "Knox, flour the large wooden board. Nora, bring the mother dough."

From the very first minute, our station moved like a synchronized machine.

Yesterday had been about finding our footing. Today was about pure execution. There was no hesitation and no second-guessing.

Mom took charge of the enriched dough, portioning and rolling smooth strands to form a wide, curving cornucopia basket. Her hands moved with thirty years of muscle memory, braiding the thick strands into a tight, seamless weave that would hold its shape without collapsing under high heat.

I took the rustic sourdough, dividing the fermented mass into tapered baguettes and decorative wheat sheaves. With a curved razor blade, I slashed intricate angled cuts along the surface, scoring delicate wheat husks and braided sunbursts into the skin.

Knox was our anchor. Standing six-foot-two with broad shoulders, he moved heavy sacks of flour like they were bags of feathers, kept our prep tables spotless, and handled the heavy wooden peel.

Whenever a batch was ready for the heat, Knox slid the long peel smoothly under the dough, transferred it onto the blistering volcanic stone deck, and hit the steam injection valve on my mark.

A massive plume of hissing white vapor engulfed the oven chamber, sealing the moisture inside to create that glassy, blistered crust.

Around us, the competition grew fierce.

At Station One, Chef Moreau was barking French commands at his assistants, frantically assembling an ornate sugar-and-brioche Eiffel Tower.

"Stay steady," Mom murmured to me. "Focus on our bread."

Time flew past in a blur of dusting flour, cinnamon spice, and roasted grains. By eleven-thirty, the mouthwatering aroma of caramelized sourdough, roasted walnuts, and spiced frangipane billowed from Station Six, drifting across the spectator gallery.

Several food critics in the front row leaned forward, visibly sniffing the air with approval.

At twelve-forty-five, Knox used the heavy peel to pull the final centerpiece elements from the stone deck.

The bread cornucopia was a triumph. The braided crust was a deep, glossy mahogany, crackling with tiny blisters. Beside it, our twelve harvest pastries, swirled with spiced apple compote, toasted pecans, and wild honey, glistened under the overhead lights.

Mom and I carefully assembled the showpiece on our large slate turntable, stacking the scored sourdough baguettes inside the braided horn of plenty like golden arrows.

"Ten seconds remaining!" the announcer boomed over the speakers.

Knox stepped back, untying his apron with a broad, confident grin. "That’s a winner right there, Bennett."

"Five... four... three... two... one!"

The final air horn roared across the arena.

A thunderous round of applause erupted from the spectator gallery. Bear was on his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs while Priya filmed everything on her phone.

"Time is up! Bakers, step away from your stations and hands off your tools!" Chef Evelyn’s commanding voice rang out over the public address system.

The arena settled into an expectant hush as Chef Evelyn adjusted her wireless microphone on the main stage.

"Four hours ago, four elite bakeries stepped onto this floor facing one of the most demanding technical challenges in competitive culinary arts," Chef Evelyn said, looking out warmly across the four stations. "What we have witnessed today is nothing short of extraordinary. The passion, architectural skill, and grit on display honor the very soul of artisan baking. Every single team on this floor should hold their head high."

She paused, letting a fresh swell of applause wash over the room before her gray eyes swept the hall.

"However, this is the Tri-County Grand Championship. While each display represents a masterpiece of dedication, only one bakery can take home the title. The judging panel will now begin official evaluations."

The five judges stepped down from the main platform.

Chef Evelyn led the group, flanked by the three European master chefs and Vanessa Orwell. Vanessa wore a tailored ice-blue blazer over cream trousers, clutching her digital scoring tablet against her waist like a shield. Her face was set in a tight, frosty scowl.

The judges bypassed Stations Two and Three, walking straight down the main aisle toward Station Six.

"Sugar and Spice," Chef Evelyn said, stopping before our slate turntable. She leaned in close, inspecting the towering braided bread cornucopia. "The structural stability here is remarkable."

"Braiding high-hydration sourdough into a curved architectural piece usually leads to tears or severe warping under stone-deck heat," a Swiss master chef beside her agreed, nodding with genuine admiration. "Your dough tension was flawless."

She reached out with a silver knife and sliced through the thickest section of the braided base.

A loud, glassy crunch echoed through the live microphones.

The master chefs leaned in, inspecting the open, airy cross-section before sampling a slice of the spiced apple-pecan pastry.

"The roasted pecans provide a rich, earthy crunch against the tart apple compote," Chef Evelyn said, looking directly at Mom and me. "Nothing on this table is an empty decorative gimmick. Every single branch of this showpiece is edible, expertly fermented, and deeply delicious. Outstanding work, Sugar and Spice."

Mom beamed with pride, her eyes shining with emotion. Beside me, Knox rested a supportive hand on the small of my back.

Chef Evelyn jotted a top mark on her clipboard and turned slightly toward the woman standing at her elbow.

"Miss Orwell," Chef Evelyn said formally. "As the resort’s ambassador and sponsor representative, what is your evaluation of Station Six’s showpiece?"

Vanessa stepped forward to the prep counter. She didn’t look at the bread, and she didn’t look at Mom.

She lifted her digital tablet, tapped the screen with a sharp, aggressive click, and stared directly into my eyes with cold, venomous malice.

She brought her wireless lapel microphone close to her mouth, her voice dripping with condescension.

"While the technical bake is passable, this display is far too rustic and primitive for a five-star resort," Vanessa announced loudly, ensuring every microphone and camera picked up her words. "It looks like peasant food from a roadside stand. In a luxury competition of this caliber, refinement matters, and for that reason... I am scoring Station Six a four out of ten."